Page 57 of Forbidden Kilted Highlander

“I—” she hesitated, then looked away. “He’s been wi’ me from the beginning. On the road. He’s… he’s bled fer me.”

“That he has,” the laird murmured. “He’s brave. Loyal.”

“Aye.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

He studied her a moment longer, then extended a hand. “Come. Let’s see if Josiah will speak with us. Perhaps there’s news.”

Surprised, Agnes blinked up at him. “Ye would come wi’ me?”

“O’ course. I would nae have ye wandering these halls alone.”

She followed him without question, heart thudding anew as they walked side by side through the corridors. The castle no longer felt quite so foreign with company, but her unease had not abated. She glanced at Caithness once, taking in the strong line of his jaw, the quiet authority in his stride. He was not what she had expected.

When they reached the healer’s door, he knocked softly.

Josiah answered, looking weary, his apron stained with something dark. His eyes fell to Agnes at once, and his face softened.

“How is he?” she asked before anyone could speak.

The healer stepped out into the corridor, pulling the door closed behind him.

“He still sleeps,” he said. “The fever’s strong. But I’ve drained the wound and applied poultices. Now we wait.”

“Can I see him?”

Josiah hesitated, then shook his head. “Nae yet, me lady. Not while the fever runs so hot. If he were tae awake now, he wouldnae ken where he is.”

Agnes’s heart clenched. “But he’s… alive?”

“Fer now,” the healer said gently. “And I’ll fight tae keep him that way.”

She pressed her fingers to her mouth, biting back a sob. Caithness placed a hand on her back, not ungentle.

"Josiah," the laird’s calm voice cut through the healer’s protests. "Would ye deny a man the one face that might pull him back from the dark? She is the reason he’s in there—that might help him. Her…appreciation."

A beat of silence. The healer’s jaw worked, his gaze flicking between the Laird’s steady calm and Agnes’s white-knuckled grip on the doorframe. Finally, with a grunt, he stepped aside.

"Five minutes," Josiah warned. "And if he stirs, ye call me at once."

Agnes didn’t move. The door stood ajar now, revealing a sliver of shadowed room—the flicker of candlelight on damp stone, the scent of vinegar and crushed herbs, the low, ragged sound of Tav’s breathing.

The laird’s hand brushed her shoulder, just once. "Go on, lass." Tav lay in the center of the room, swathed in blood-stained bandages and half-tangled linens. His chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm, like a drowning man clawing for breath beneath invisible waves. His skin looked pale as bone in the firelight, slicked with sweat that gleamed across the bruised ridges of his torso.

Agnes faltered, just for a moment.

Her hand clutched the edge of the doorway tae hold her upright. She had wept before. Outside the healer’s door, when the worst had seemed inevitable. But this was the kind of pain that bloomed in the unbearable knowledge that she could do nothing but watch him slip further away.

“Go on,” Caithness said quietly behind her.

“Thank ye,” she whispered. “Fer lettin’ me see him.”

The laird gave a small, respectful nod. “He’d want ye near.”

Then he turned and left, pulling the door gently shut behind him.

Her feet were soundless against the rushes as she approached the bed, every step careful, as if the wrong movement might wake some lurking spirit in the room. The air was thick with heat. All of her focus narrowed to the man lying motionless in the center of the bed.

She knelt beside him without thinking, as if her body was no longer waiting for her permission. Her skirts spilled around her knees like ink, pooling on the floor in soft, crushed folds.